Good as Gold
by Camillo
Summary: Hermione Granger's recently retired parents plunge headlong into village life and decide to drag her along for the ride. There are a number of unexpected consequences. SS/HG, DH compliant but epilogue ignored.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not-for-profit fanfiction. The main characters and some of the situations described are the property of J. K. Rowling and the companies she deals with.

This story was written for harrietvane as part of the winter SSHG exchange on livejournal. Her prompts were rather good and rather detailed. They will therefore be given at the end of the story. Thanks go to melusin for her wonderful beta work.

**Chapter 1: Political Suicide.**

Christopher was dangerously bored. He'd had the same job for six years. His wife was happily occupied raising money for good causes. His daughters had both managed to pass their A-levels and get into respectable red-brick universities. His parents had shuffled off this mortal coil before finding a suitable old people's home became an issue. Work could be a pain in the arse sometimes, although it was quite interesting. But nothing seemed to be much fun anymore, except for the rather feisty redhead he'd met recently – who was apparently rather keen on him.

Christopher had a bit of spare money tucked away, so he decided to buy something nice to cheer himself up. A chap from work recommended another chap who could help, and a few months later, Christopher purchased a rather nice ground-floor flat in Islington. The chap who helped to buy the place dropped the keys off on a Thursday. At dinner that evening, Christopher told his wife he had meetings in Edinburgh the next day, so he'd see her for lunch on the Saturday. On Friday morning, Christopher began to shag his feisty redhead in every single room of his new flat.

Unfortunately, the combination of the washing machine, the kitchen window and the new camera phone belonging to the chap who'd been so helpful, led to by far the most popular footage ever to grace a video hosting website. It depicted the redhead – who was also known as the Right Honourable Member of Parliament for Bootle – and Christopher – who was also known as the United Kingdom Prime Minister, First Lord of the Treasury and Minister for the Civil Service.

New technology share prices rose slightly, and the news was splashed over every front page in Muggle England. It only warranted a small article at the bottom of page six in the _Daily Prophet_ and didn't make it into the _Quibbler Redux_ at all. However, Hermione Granger read both the _Daily Telegraph_ and the _Prophet_, so she knew all about what had happened and even sneaked off to an internet café to have a look at the evidence during her lunch hour. She didn't like Christopher's paunch much, but it certainly looked like the MP for Bootle was enjoying herself. Hermione tutted disapprovingly, pondered the mid-life crisis phenomenon and, in the spirit of thoroughness, watched the video clip three more times.

* * *

Four weeks later, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer moved into number ten, Downing Street. Bob Daniels was an unassuming career politician with a good head for figures, and he was more than a bit surprised that his party had seen fit to vote him into the top spot. His wife was extremely annoyed about the whole thing. She was scared of flying, and she thought the President of the United States' wife was an awful snob. She also missed her Warwickshire garden and didn't like the new anti-rocket propelled grenade wall at the back of number ten.

The evening after Bob moved house, he was fiddling with the ergonomically designed leather chair in his office (Christopher was at least four inches taller than Bob) when a man's voice said, "Excuse me! The Minister for Magic wishes to introduce himself. Have you got a minute or two?"

Suspecting some sort of 'Welcome to Power' practical joke, Bob checked the telephone on his desk, his mobile phone and the space behind him. He still couldn't see the source of the voice.

"No, no, I'm over here!" called a portrait of a man, who was waving a hand in a friendly manner.

Bob blinked. The man in the portrait beckoned him closer.

"Listen, the Minister is going to come through the fireplace. Don't panic, it's quite normal," continued the portrait.

"Right then," said Bob. "Something MI5 have developed, I take it?"

The man in the portrait smirked.

"Not _exactly_," he said.

A blaze of green flames, a little bit of soot and a practical demonstration of the art of Transfiguration on a pot-plant later, and an enormous man with smooth, black skin and a diamond-stud earring was lounging in the chair opposite Bob's as if he'd been there many times before.

"Doesn't change here, does it?" said the man. "I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt, and I'm the Minister for Magic in this country. You don't need to know anything much about my people because the wizarding population is enjoying a stable period at the moment. If anything happens that might affect you Muggles, though, I'll keep you informed."

"The wizarding population?"

"That's right. There is a segregated community of witches, wizards and magical beings living in Britain. The Muggle population don't know about us, and we'd like to keep it that way."

"Muggle population?"

Kingsley began to look a bit impatient.

"Yes, Bob. As a rule, non-magical people, or Muggles, do not know about magical people or beings. Only if Muggle parents give birth to a magical child, or if a magical person wishes to marry a Muggle, are these rules transgressed. You, for example, are a Muggle. I, on the other hand, am a wizard."

"I see," said Bob, who didn't really see at all, but who was quite good at getting to the heart of the matter. "You imply that this _wizarding_ population has unstable periods?"

"Not for a long time, now," said Kingsley smoothly. "We had a parliamentary coup and a civil war about twelve years ago, but everything is hunky-dory at the moment."

"You had a _war!_" spluttered Bob. "Why wasn't it in the papers?"

"Ah. It was, to an extent. You remember the Brockdale Bridge disaster? The unusual amount of snow we had before Christmas in ninety-seven? Well, the first was a terrorist attack signalling the other side's intent to gain power, and the second was the side-effect of some of their dark magic."

"We had a white Christmas in southern England because of a _magical war?_"

"Of course! It wouldn't happen usually, would it?"

"Er … No. No, I suppose not. I can't believe the Government at the time didn't know!"

"Well, it _did_, actually. I even worked here for a while. The Prime Minister before Christopher was quite upset when I had to leave, but I picked up some very useful tips about Spin Doctors."

Bob stared at Kingsley incredulously.

"But what caused the war? Is it going to happen again?"

"We had a bit of a problem with a wizard who didn't like Muggles, called Lord Voldemort. He wanted to get rid of anybody magical who was born of Muggle parents. It was terrible! We couldn't have had him in power."

"Hang on a second. I thought you said that _I_ was a Muggle."

"That's right."

"So if one of my children turned out to be, erm, magical, this Lord Voldemort would have killed her?"

"Possibly. Or enslaved her, or had her soul sucked out."

"Fucking hell!"

Kingsley laughed. Bob frowned. He didn't like the sound of this at all.

"What security measures have you put in place? What guarantees do I have that my people aren't going to be harmed by yours?"

"Oh, Voldemort was killed in battle. And most of his supporters were either killed too or rounded up and put in prison. We've got a very good Department of Magical Law Enforcement, nowadays. The young man who killed Voldemort even works there."

Bob was only slightly mollified by this information, but he had another pressing question, and it was nearly time for his dinner.

"So, are you all paying taxes?"

Kingsley grimaced.

"We pay income tax to the Ministry of Magic. We don't need to pay it to the Muggle government."

"So, you don't use the National Health Service?"

"No."

"Or schools?"

"Only the Muggle-borns experience primary school education, and their parents are paying their taxes, I'm sure …"

"Dustbins? Street lights? The police?"

"Umm …"

"Or the roads?"

"Er, not much."

"Define, 'not much'."

Kingsley sighed and fidgeted in his chair.

"Look, Bob. I'm a bit busy at the moment. Can we do this another time?"

"Yes of course, Kingsley," said Bob politely. "But I want to know _everything._

"You want to know it _all?_" exclaimed Kingsley.

"Of course I do! I'm the Prime Minister. I can't be ignorant about a whole section of society!"

One of Kingsley's plump cheeks dimpled rather pleasantly when he smiled.

"Right then," he said, heaving himself upright, aiming his wand at Bob's chair and silently altering something so that Bob's back felt much more comfortable. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

The Prime Minister was desperately keen to keep his new interest a secret – in politics gaining a reputation as an eccentric was far more damaging than gaining a reputation as a sleazy bastard. Bob and Hermione Granger could therefore only see each other when nobody else was around. Obviously, the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff, Deputy Chief of Staff, Director of Political Strategy, Director of Government Relations, Head of Policy, Press Advisor, Head of International and Economic Affairs, Head of Domestic Policy and Strategy, Head of Foreign and Defence Policy and wife had higher priority than Hermione. So she used their one and only meeting to confirm her salary, fill out the form for the Inland Revenue that Bob was very insistent about and draw up an exhaustive list of 'Topics that Bob Should Know All About'. Then she had a meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, showed him the list, accepted the salary he offered after an infinitesimal pause and didn't have to fill out any forms at all because magic is a wonderful thing.

Being able to double up on her wages was terribly convenient, and Hermione very much enjoyed writing well-researched and beautifully presented reports on various aspects of wizarding life. She quickly realised that if she worked too hard and too quickly on Bob's Topics, she'd be out of a lucrative job within a year. In order to drag out her task for as long as possible, she spent most of her 'working hours' carefully re-decorating the ground-floor Islington flat she'd managed to buy very quickly and cheaply. She also spent a lot of time helping her parents to tidy up and sell their (once again) thriving dental practice in Surry in preparation for retirement.

The only annoying thing about life was the way Hermione's mother kept nagging her to find a nice man and settle down. There were no attractive, intelligent, witty men working in the Ministry of Magic's archives and library. Or in W.H. Smith's where she bought all the Muggle stationary necessary for her writing. When she went out for drinks with her old school friends, Dean Thomas always seemed to like ogling her tits, but she didn't really fancy him. And Ron Weasley was, well, Ron Weasley. Hung like a donkey and occasionally funny, but incredibly insecure and not an attractive long-term prospect.

* * *

As is usually the case in Britain, the summer passed unsatisfyingly quickly and Hermione's thirtieth birthday was nearly upon her. Unlike Harry Potter, who positively revelled in organising large, loud, expensive birthday celebrations, Hermione wasn't bothered about making a big fuss. She was quite relieved when Harry and Ron told her not to worry about a thing because they'd be sorting out something quiet and fun for her birthday weekend. All she had to do was pack some sensible clothes and shoes and Apparate to 12, Grimmauld Place at five p.m. on Friday.

Hermione spent the week thinking about a nice hired cottage somewhere pretty – the Lake District or Dorset would be nice – and dug her walking boots out of the bottom of her wardrobe. She arrived at the Potter house in time to see Harry and Ginny's two children before they Floo'ed to the Burrow to stay with Granny and Grandad for the weekend. She experienced her first pang of concern when she noticed a familiar sausage-shaped canvas bag on the kitchen table. It looked like a tent. Sod it, it _was_ a tent. And at the tender age of eighteen years and eight months, Hermione had publicly vowed _never_ to go camping ever, ever, again.

When Ron took her hand and side-along Apparated with her to a heavily wooded part of Gloucestershire, Hermione's pang of concern began to evolve into a discontented snit. When Harry and Ginny Potter, the tent and a picnic hamper appeared with an unmistakeably chirpy _pop_, things began to take on a sort of nightmarish quality.

Harry suggested that Hermione deal with the usual wards and enchantments whilst he and Ron pitched the tent and Ginny saw to dinner. The tent was brand new and apparently had two sound-proofed bedrooms. Ginny and Ron both smiled at Harry approvingly. Hermione raised her eyes to the heavens, hedged her bets and silently begged God and Richard Dawkins to give her strength. Being reasonably kind, she decided to give her oldest friends one chance to explain themselves before she gave the malicious side of her personality a free rein.

"Whose idea was it to camp in the Forest of Dean?"

Harry grinned at her.

"It was mine, actually. I always thought it would be nice to bring Ginny here and spend a night in a tent _with_ her, rather than thinking about her being miles away. And I thought it would give you and Ron a chance to … um … lay a few old demons to rest, so to speak."

"So, essentially, my thirtieth birthday weekend is planned around the concept of fulfilling the teenage wank fantasies of both you and Ron?"

They smiled at her uncertainly. They wouldn't have used those words, but at least she was quick on the uptake.

Hermione drew her wand and effortlessly cast the series of spells that she had memorised all those years ago. Without pausing, she added a testicle itching hex to the incantation and Apparated to her parents' back door.

* * *

"Hermione, darling! Happy birthday. We weren't expecting you until Sunday evening. Is something wrong?"

"Camping, Mum. They decided to take me camping."

"Gin and tonic?"

"Don't let Dad pour it."

Hermione could hear her mother chuckling all the way to the drinks cabinet in the sitting room. She dropped her handbag onto the kitchen table with a satisfying thump, retrieved the tonic water from the fridge and wandered in the direction of alcoholic solace. She found her mother doing wonderful things with a green bottle and a large glass and her father on the sofa chewing his biro and considering two down in that day's _Telegraph_ crossword.

"Hello, Hermione, happy birthday. 'Bird on fire, leave'."

"Hey, Dad. Flamingo. Are you trying to cheer me up?"

Hermione's father regarded her over the top of his reading glasses.

"I have spent an exhausting day rejecting all the over-valued houses your mother thinks we ought to buy, and now I have a few minutes of peace, I find them slipping away from me because of an unexpected visitor. Why on Earth would I be trying to cheer you up?"

"Because you heard me talking to Mum in the kitchen."

Hermione's father smiled his Daddy smile, pulled her down to his level for a kiss on the cheek and returned to the crossword.

"Here you go, darling. There's cassoulet in the oven and a comfy bed upstairs. You can open your presents after dinner."

Hermione gratefully accepted her drink from her mother and spent dinner explaining to her parents that she had several very good reasons not to be settling down with any of the wizards of her acquaintance. Her birthday presents turned out to be a horribly frilly, yet embarrassingly see-through, nightie and a recipe book full of hugely complicated romantic dinners for two.

The following morning, a big white envelope arrived in the post from the offices of Cobbledick and Dewhurst, Est. 1954. In it were the details of a three bedroom detached property on the outskirts of a little village called Slapton Poppleford in Devon. The pictures showed a solid 1930's house, a pretty garden and an absolutely wonderful view. In amongst the waffle, the estate agent's blurb contained several pieces of pertinent information. 'Award-winning pub', 'close-knit community', 'area of outstanding natural beauty' and 'twenty minute drive from Exeter', all received approving murmurs from _both _of Hermione's parents. Miracle of miracles, it seemed that the retirement home of Hermione's Mum's dreams might actually exist at a price that her Dad was willing to pay.

A phone call registered their interest and resulted in a viewing appointment on the following Tuesday. Hermione's Dad said that he and his wife might as well explore the area and booked a nearby bed and breakfast for two nights. This decision represented something of a watershed. When Hermione's mum lifted her head from his chest for long enough to ask why he was suddenly so keen on moving, Mr Granger tugged one of her greying curls and said he'd got a good feeling about the place.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All of the usual statements apply here.

Thanks go to Melusin for her beta-work.

**Chapter 2: Midnight Mass.**

Hermione survived the Ministry Christmas party and Harry's annual Butterbeer and mince-pie bonanza relatively unscathed. (Harry, Ginny and Ron chose to blame her birthday temper on the stress of seeing the Forest of Dean again.) She sent Bob a lengthy commentary on Muggle Obliviation and memory modification during the 20th century as a present and received an official Downing Street Christmas card in return. Her Dad approved of Bob, but her Mum had rather fancied Christopher and referred to the (former) MP for Bootle as the 'Ginger Strumpet'. Still, a daughter who got a Christmas card from the Prime Minister was not to be sniffed at, so she packed the card and took it with her to show it off to her parents.

After taking a good look at a photograph of the Grangers' new back garden, Hermione Apparated almost silently to Devon on Christmas Eve. Mr Granger was standing on the back lawn admiring the night sky when his daughter appeared. He didn't even flinch, and she loved him dearly for it.

"Here's my girl," he murmured as he enveloped Hermione in his Daddy hug and kissed the top of her head.

"Hello, Dad. How have you been?" she asked.

He smiled at her.

"Surprisingly well, actually. I'd go as far as to say that things have been busy in a very good way, and you can't ask for more than that. Come on, I'll give you the tour."

Hermione lit her wand so they could have a good look at the empty vegetable patch, the garden shed and the compost heap, and then they made their way around to the terrace at the front of the house. It stood in a row of ten similar homes, built on the side of a little valley. A mixture of rolling pasture and winter cropping interspersed with patches of woodland, farmhouses and high, Devon hedges stretched out before them until a dark strip of conifer plantation topped the opposite side of the valley. To the left, the lights of Slapton Poppleford shone, and a meandering river could be glimpsed through the trees. Moonlight glittered on frost and water and cast long, sharp shadows.

"Beyond that hill is the sea. We're sheltered from the coastal weather here, and apparently most of the tourists use the bigger roads and bypass the village, so it's peaceful all year round," explained Mr Granger happily.

Entering the house through the front door, Hermione kissed Mrs Granger, stowed her handbag in one of the bedrooms and dutifully admired the new curtains, the Grangers' smart en-suite bathroom and the open fire. Her father poured sherry, and they both retired to the sitting-room while Hermione's mum finished cooking the dinner.

"It's beautiful, Dad. I'm glad you seem to be settling in okay."

"We are settling in just fine. We've even met a decent neighbour, and your Mum is going to be in the village pantomime."

"Oh, no! What part has she got herself?"

"Sleeping Beauty's wicked fairy godmother. She's been practicing her evil cackle since she was cast."

"Good grief! I _am_ sorry."

Hermione's father laughed heartily.

"Don't be. The walls here are reasonably thick, and she's happy. Plus, when she's at rehearsals in the village hall, I'm in the pub. She pops in for half a cider afterwards and gives me a lift home. You'll come and see her, won't you?"

"I suppose I'll have to, or I'll never hear the end of it. When is it?"

"Spring half-term. If you come down on the Friday, I'll take you to the pub for dinner, and we can get tickets for the Saturday night performance."

Hermione shuddered dramatically. She'd never really grown out of squirming with embarrassment when her mother indulged in exhibitionist behaviour.

Dinner was so nice that when Mrs Granger announced that they would be attending midnight mass in the village, Hermione couldn't be bothered to grumble much. She supposed that some brisk moonlit walking and some carolling would be a good idea as the next few days would be littered with turkey-based cuisine and her dad's lethal version of Christmas pudding. Hermione's mother watched her out of the corner of one eye and was quietly smug about the lack of protest.

* * *

A single bell, proudly tolled by the septuagenarian churchwarden, rang rather irregularly from the Church of Saint Boniface's squat, square and genuinely ancient Norman tower. The body of the church was small and smelt of mouldy hymn-books, hot candle wax and boozy breath. It was absolutely packed, owing to the fact that pub closing time coincided nicely with the start of midnight mass and that belting out a few carols usually sounds like a great idea when you're full of Christmas spirit (and beer).

A little blonde choirgirl managed to warble her way through the first verse of 'Once in Royal David's City' without mishap, and the mostly sozzled congregation enthusiastically joined in for the second verse.

Things got slightly less dignified during the sermon. A couple of the local lads, who had enjoyed the pub immensely and bellowed their carols with gusto, were feeling the effects of their final, hastily swallowed pint of lager. They shuffled out of their pew without mishap and tiptoed outside for a quick pee. Having decided that the deep shadows at the back of the church would be appropriately discreet, the noise of two healthily emptying bladders and the accompanying conversation could be dimly heard over the vicar's gentle meditation on the joy of Christmas.

"Thus the birth of God's long-awaited redeemer was introduced to a darkened, weary, and exhausted world—"

"—Did you pull Cheryl, then?"

"Not yet. Wish I had though, she's got lov-er-ly tits."

"Careful, mate! You shouldn't say, 'tits' in a graveyard."

"Alright then, she's got a lov-er-ly arse—"

"—and this amazing story of hope and love fills us with joy to this day."

Hermione's father snorted indecorously while her mother emitted a tiny squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth. Hermione bit her bottom lip and stared up at the rafters for a moment or two. When she dropped her eyes to the front of the church, she noticed a pair of broad shoulders, quite obviously shaking with suppressed mirth, three pews further forward.

The shoulders were covered by a nice black jumper. Cashmere, by the look of it. The very clean collar of a white shirt emerged from the neck of the jumper. Above that, a neatly barbered male neck could be seen, rising into a glossy mess of black locks along with two barely visible but obviously neatly positioned ears. For some intangible reason, the combination of muscle, tendon, bone and hair that knitted together to form the upper rear view of the silent giggler was extremely attractive, and Hermione wondered why she hadn't spotted it earlier. Forgetting all about Cheryl's admirer, she eagerly waited for the next carol to see if the rest of the rear view was as good.

My oh my. It definitely was.

As she only had a handful of church appearances to her name since she'd caught her first train to Hogwarts and had never been confirmed, Hermione didn't take communion. Neither did the mystery man, so she didn't get to see his face, even in profile, before the service drew to a close. All around them people beamed at each other and began to exchange Christmas greetings. The candlelit atmosphere was filled with Goodwill towards All Men, and Hermione was suddenly very glad she'd come because she could wish her gorgeous giggler a happy Christmas and then introduce herself without seeming too desperate. Then her mother ruined things by introducing her to some of the village's oldest inhabitants.

"Mrs Baker! Merry Christmas! This is our daughter, Hermione."

"Hello, my love. That's a funny name! Happy Christmas to you. It's nice to see some of you new people showing your face to the village, though your mother certainly isn't backward with coming forward. Where've you come from, then?"

"Oh, I live in London, actually."

"Well I never! I've got a grandson who lives in London. Perhaps you know him?"

"Um, what's his name?"

"Timothy. Timothy Baker."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I haven't met him."

Mrs Baker eyed Hermione with tangible disappointment and moved on to a satisfyingly lengthy critique of the choirgirl's solo verse with a friend. Another wrinkled face appeared.

"Miss Anning! How are you?"

"As good as can be expected with two eight year-old hips in an eighty year-old body. Who's this young lady, then?"

"This is Hermione, our daughter."

"Come down for Christmas, have you?"

"That's right, Miss Anning. Happy Christmas!"

This earned Hermione an approving smile. She felt she was getting the hang of villagey things rather well.

"Not thinking of moving here, are you? We could do with a few nice young people like you."

"No. I work in London, you see."

"London, eh? My great-niece works in London, too. Do you know her?"

"I shouldn't _think_ so. It's quite a big place."

"Well, I'll tell her to look out for you, anyway. Hermione's not a name you hear often, is it?"

"No, it's quite unusual... That's very… kind of you."

Nutters.

After thanking the vicar for the service (he seemed entirely oblivious to the disturbance during his sermon), Hermione and Mr Granger began to follow the crowd towards the door of the church. Behind them, Mrs Granger's voice rose to pantomime cackle volume.

"Severus! I was hoping we might see you here. Happy Christmas!"

"Angela. You knew perfectly well I'd be here because you asked me in the Post Office last week."

For the third time in her life, somebody who was supposed to be dead clearly wasn't playing by the rules. All the nerve endings in Hermione's skin seemed to prickle as adrenaline flooded her system – which seemed an extravagant response given the apparent haziness of the dead/alive divide in the wizarding world. She slid her hand into her coat pocket and felt for her wand as she turned to look down the aisle of the church and found Severus Snape standing right next to her mum.

"Hello, Severus!" said Hermione's dad. "Have you been in the pub?"

Snape's dark eyes lifted from Mrs Granger to Mr Granger and then widened as he noticed Hermione. The line between his eyebrows deepened, and a muscle in his cheek fluttered. Just as quickly, the frown was gone, and Snape was chatting to Mr Granger, both hands shoved into his coat pockets.

"Yes, I have. I had a wonderful evening watching the Matthews boys vie for the honour of groping Cheryl Pugh."

Hermione's father grinned.

"This is our daughter, Hermione. Hermione, this is Severus – the neighbour I mentioned."

While Mr Granger was speaking, Hermione and Snape eyed each other carefully. Hermione realised that under his winter coat, Snape was wearing a v-necked black cashmere jumper and a white shirt. For an insane moment, she wondered whether anybody would mind if she banged her head repeatedly on the back of the nearest pew. She decided that, under the circumstances, acting as normally as possible might be safer.

"Hello, Severus. Pleased to meet you."

Snape's right eyebrow jumped, and for a moment his eyes shone with appreciative amusement.

"Likewise, Hermione. Welcome to Slapton Poppleford."

Hermione couldn't prevent a bubble of ever-so-slightly hysterical laughter from gurgling out of her throat.

"It _is_ a ridiculous name, but it's Anglo-Saxon so we must not complain," drawled Snape. "How long are you here for?"

"I'll be back in London for New Year."

"Good, good. We don't want you getting bored in sleepy old Devon, do we?"

"Oh, I only got here this evening, and it's already been quite exciting."

"Really? I can't imagine why. Only just the other day, I was telling your parents how much I enjoy the peace here. It's a real treat to be able to walk freely around the English countryside with nothing to disturb me. I was terribly relieved to be able to leave the rat-race behind, you know."

Hermione gazed up at Snape's face. His expression was inscrutable.

"Yes, I can imagine," she replied. "It must be nice not to be at a lord _and_ master's beck and call."

Although his mouth remained impassive, Snape's eyes began to shine again in the most disturbing manner.

"It's very nice indeed. I'm quite at home here."

"Getting to know my parents well?"

"We've only met a few times, but they seem friendly."

A flood of electric light and the shuffling of shoes on flagstones indicated that the church warden wanted to tidy up. The four of them sprang to help the old man, collecting service booklets and bright red copies of _Hymns, Ancient and Modern_ while blowing out all the candles.

Justifiably wary of Obliviation or worse, Hermione watched Snape loping around the church until he had an ungainly but apparently weightless pile of books wedged under his chin. In the blink of an eye, he had them neatly stacked on a shelf behind the font before politely helping everybody else to deal with theirs. He was still slim and pale, but he didn't look anything like the gaunt, edgy, scarecrow of her childhood. Shorter hair had thankfully banished the sulky adolescent demeanour, and middle-age suited his face as much as Muggle trousers suited his arse.

As they left the church, Angela Granger grabbed her husband's hand and marched off at a rate of knots, towing him behind her. Hermione watched in dismay as she was left alone, in the dark, with Severus Snape – who was busy casting _Muffliato_ and walking far too slowly for comfort.

"I can understand them not bringing you up in conversation, but how come they don't know who _I_ am?" exclaimed Snape.

"They were scared shitless of sending me off to Hogwarts in the first place. I didn't think that telling them about creepy teachers would help!"

"Don't they know about the war?"

"I modified their memories and sent them away when… when things got really bad. The state of their bank balance after ten months of travelling around Australia was a handy distraction afterwards. They know who Voldemort was, and what he stood for. They know I hate camping. They know that things are better now. Do you want to explain the rest to them, or shall I?"

"Merlin, no!"

"Fine, then. I could have sworn I watched you die from a snake bite during the Battle of Hogwarts. Did all the guff you told us about stoppering death actually have some basis in truth?"

"No, that was mostly just for show. The ability to cast _Imperio _on Lucius Malfoy, dose him with Polyjuice Potion and force him to use _Legilimens_ to gain access to particular memories of mine was definitely not, 'guff'. I ordered him to pass on the information – no matter what – if he saw Potter and made him return to Riddle in my place. Then, I simply used Polyjuice to assume Lucius' form and kept searching for Potter myself. It worked perfectly. Lucius was such a wreck that Narcissa didn't mind very much, and I think Draco was slightly relieved."

"Shit! In the Shrieking Shack, Riddle even said you, er, _he _sounded like Lucius. Was that _you_ in the Great Hall after the battle?"

Snape pocketed his wand and nodded smugly.

"Does anybody else _know?_"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt is aware of my continued existence. He… viewed the evidence, disposed of Lucius' remains and pardoned me as soon as he officially gained power. The choice to stay mostly incognito is partly personal preference and partly ingrained habit – my work doesn't require public appearances and, as far as I was aware, the nearest magical being was thirty miles away in Ottery St Catchpole."

"You never did want any credit, did you?"

"I'd rather you didn't try to analyse my motives. They seem… immature, in hindsight."

Hermione wondered if it was possible to make Snape cringe.

"Rather sweet, though. If a little unhealthy."

Snape grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Apparently, anything was possible.

"Rather _adolescent_," he muttered. "And, thanks to Dumbledore's constant poking and prodding, very unhealthy indeed. I seem to have an innate ability to behave in an embarrassing manner, which is probably why I can cope with your mother. Have you seen her practicing her pantomime lines?"

"Not yet, no. Is it very bad?"

"On a scale of one to ten, I'd say it's horrendous."

"Are you going to Obliviate me?"

"It's tempting, but I suppose you'll be turning up again at some point. Perhaps you can convince me not to."

Hermione sighed. What could she use to strike a deal? Ah, yes.

"I'm being paid by both the Ministry and the Muggle Prime Minister for the same job."

Snape actually laughed.

"Feathering your nest?"

"Rather nicely, in fact."

"Kingsley did exactly the same thing when he was an Auror pretending to be a Muggle secretary. You either have nothing to worry about, or you should be very careful indeed. I'm not certain which. If we both keep quiet, I suppose it would be mutually beneficial."

"Good. Just remember that if you hurt my parents, I'll kill you."

Snape halted mid-stride and turned to face Hermione.

"Your parents are perfectly safe with me."

"Promise?"

He reached out and offered his hand to shake. Hermione hesitated for a moment and then took it. In contrast to her chilly fingers, his grip was warm, dry and strong.

"I promise. Happy Christmas, Hermione."

Hermione stared up into Snape's face and tried to suppress a visible quiver of excitement as she realised that, for the first time in years, she was about to start fancying the pants off a man who existed outside the pages of a book. Snape was sexy. She wanted him closer so she could check the smell of his hair and body. She wanted to find out what the rest of his skin felt like. She was almost certain that if he kissed her, large quantities of excitement and lust would be generated. The sense of relief was so overwhelming that for the moment she completely forgot to consider what the object of her affection might think about it all, or whether he was, for example, married with three children. She felt vindicated. The Gobi Desert that represented her love life was _not her fault after all_. It really had just been a case of never coming across the right sort of bloke. Obviously, it didn't help that the right sort of bloke was perfectly happy to let wizarding society believe that he was dead.

Obviously, if the right sort of bloke had a habit of reading people's minds while they stared at him, the thoughts running through her head were stomach-mincingly embarrassing.

After a few moments had passed, Snape gently let go of Hermione's hand, surreptitiously pulled his wand from his pocket, gave it a flick to cancel the anti-eavesdropping spell and turned down a tiny lane, disappearing into the shadows. She stood for a moment, thoughts tumbling through her brain until a little burst of nervous energy made her jog to catch up with her parents.

"Well, darling, you seemed to be getting on _very_ well. What were you talking about?" Angela immediately asked.

"Oh, nothing much."

"I knew it! _We've_ found you a man."

"Mum! Don't be silly. He-he-he… wouldn't be interested."

"Well, you'll just have to make an effort to get him interested. He's terribly dishy, and he's simply crying out for a girlfriend."

"He's older than me!"

"He doesn't look more than forty. And you're not getting any younger, are you?"

"_Mum!_"

* * *

Notes:

Schools in the UK usually have an Autumn, Spring and Summer Term. Half way through each term, you used to get a week off, called 'Half Term'. Nowadays, the poor sods going to school in Devon only get a long weekend.

No offence to anybody's church is intended. This is an accurate account of the way things are in at least one Westcountry village.


	3. Chapter 3

For disclaimer, see Chapter 1. Thanks to Melusin for beta-work!

**Chapter 3: Boo, Hiss.**

The rest of Hermione's Christmas visit passed without incident, and whenever Angela Granger tried to introduce the topic of Severus Snape into the conversation, Stephen observed his daughter's expression and changed the subject abruptly. Privately, Hermione spent a good deal of time celebrating the fact that Snape was alive and well. In between remembering the way his thighs and bottom looked in trousers, she replayed their conversation in her head over and over again and tried to reconcile it with her previous experiences and the things that Harry had told her.

To Hermione, Snape had seemed resoundingly _normal_. He went to the local pub and made friends with his new neighbours. He sang carols on Christmas Eve. He found absurd things amusing. He had smiley eyes. He was free to wear woolly jumpers, go for walks in the country and forget all about his miserable experiences at Hogwarts and, presumably, elsewhere. He obviously got on all right with her dad, and her mum practically had her tongue up his arse. Now, that was a mental image she could do without. Fierce concentration on Snape's solo arse would definitely be required. It might be lonely, though. It might need a nice bit of stroking to cheer it up…

* * *

After a week consisting purely of meals, awful Christmas telly and the construction of increasingly outlandish fantasies involving (amongst other things) Severus Snape, cashmere and candles, Hermione spent the evening of New Year's Eve at the Leaky Cauldron with her friends. She was determined not to dwell on the idea of Snape, sat in another pub at the other end of the country, happily seeing in the New Year with his Muggle acquaintances and quite possibly having a better time than her. Hermione's determination was such that she got absolutely hammered on mulled mead with firewhisky chasers. By midnight, she'd decided that, this year, she wasn't going to hide in a corner and watch everybody else snogging at midnight. Or brooding over the probability that Snape hadn't thought about her at all since Christmas when she'd spent some/most/practically all of her time thinking about him. 

The next morning, she woke up in one of the bedrooms above the bar with the worst hangover she'd had since her twenty-first birthday. Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth took a full minute. Extracting her eyelashes from the crud that encased them took a bit longer. When she was almost able to see properly, the bed inexplicably shifted, and her head bounced agonisingly against her pillow. Her memory immediately began to spit random blurry images at her.

Dean. Dean Thomas. Handing her a shot of firewhisky as people noisily counted down from ten. Pulling her up stairs that kept rising to meet her too quickly. Kissing her clumsily with soft lips. Sucking her nipple and trying to inconspicuously massage his pickled penis into an adequately turgid state. Shagging that seemed to go on and on because both of them were too pissed to come. The last thing she could remember was collapsing onto her belly and gasping that they'd have to stop because she was getting sleepy. She must have passed out as soon as she'd finished speaking.

Deciding that she had to have a shower within the next five minutes or she'd actually start to rot, Hermione fumbled for her wand on the bedside table, croakily Summoned her clothes and shoes and wondered whether it was possible to Apparate lying down. The bed shifted again, and Dean's bloodshot brown eyes appeared next to her.

"You making a move?"

"Yes. I'm not feeling too good."

"Me neither."

They regarded each other awkwardly for a moment. Eventually, Dean rolled onto his back and shut his eyes. Hermione gritted her teeth against the pounding behind her eyes and carefully eased herself into a sitting position.

"Shall I Floo you?" he asked.

"Probably better not. I'll see you next time we're out?"

"Yeah, okay. Are you, you know, alright?"

"I'm okay. Feeling a bit bashful."

Dean cracked open an eye and squinted up at her.

"Don't be, love. We were both mullered. I didn't exactly cover myself with glory, did I?"

He had a point. He was being magnanimous in defeat. It contrasted pleasantly with her memories of Ron's antics. She'd better escape before the mood turned sour.

"I'll leave you some Galleons for the room."

"There's no need; I paid Hannah last night."

"Oh. Thank you. See you around, I suppose."

Clutching her possessions to her chest, Hermione scrambled out of bed, concentrated on the thought of her cosy living-room and Disapparated.

Surviving a two day potion-resistant hangover was a truly grotty way to start the year. Annoyingly, it was made even grottier by a nagging anxiety about what Severus Snape would think of her. Although she felt like a bit of a mangy fox for having a drunken one-night-stand, it really wasn't any of his business. The inability to get Dean Thomas excited enough to shoot his load before she dozed off was a genuine cause for concern, however. _If_ Snape really was crying out for a girlfriend, she'd have to brush up on her technique. The only discernable silver lining to Hermione's New Year cloud was the incontrovertible evidence that she hadn't sealed over completely from lack of use.

* * *

For some reason, Bob had expressed a particular interest in the extent to which wizarding Britain relied on Muggle roads. Kingsley had eyed this topic with trepidation and made a note next to it on Hermione's list: 

'Don't dig too deep. Registered vehicles only!'

January's research therefore took approximately an hour of waiting around while somebody in the Department of Magical Transportation found the right box of parchment. Hermione was rather surprised to discover that apart from ten Ministry cars and the Knight Bus, there were very few vehicles officially in use. In fact, there was a Reliant Regal van in Peckham, a 1969 Dodge Charger in Glasgow and, surprisingly, an Aston Martin DB9, a Porche 911 and a Range Rover in Melksham, all belonging to Draco Malfoy. It appeared that Mr Anti-Muggle was a closet petrol-head.

Hermione knew for a fact that Arthur Weasley had recently got his oily paws on a yellow Volvo, and she hated to think what every other middle-aged wizard was up to in his garden shed. However, bearing in mind Snape's advice about being careful around Kingsley Shacklebolt, she decided to stick to the official version and sent Bob a report stating that only fifteen cars were in use in wizarding Britain. She was horrified to receive a letter from Bob in reply, saying he wanted the topic on wizarding finance to be tackled next. The subject would be a nightmare to deal with because, to be frank, nobody magical she'd ever met had a clue about economics, and she couldn't recall seeing any relevant books at work. Witches and wizards earned Galleons, and they spent them or saved them. Things like inflation didn't seem to come up in normal conversation – although she could distinctly remember her parents grumbling when the pound to Galleon exchange rate was poor. Hermione's head dropped into her hands when she realised that the goblins were the primary source of information on wizarding finance. She wasn't exactly popular at Gringotts.

* * *

The following Sunday evening, Hermione's telephone rang while she was in the bath. She swore loudly, chucked her book on the bathroom floor away from any drips of water, climbed out and wrapped herself in a towel as she stumbled towards the phone. When she picked up, her dad greeted her. His voice sounded strained, as if he was in pain. Hermione's knees went weak with fear, and her towel slipped dramatically when she heard an unearthly screech followed by high-pitched laughter in the background. It sounded uncannily like Bellatrix Lestrange. Surely she wasn't still alive, too? 

To add to Hermione's confusion, Stephen Granger lost the plot completely and began to wheeze with the sort of laughter you emit when your stomach already aches from giggling. What was happening to him? Repeated use of Tickling Charms? Was Snape indulging in a spot of Muggle-baiting, even though he'd promised not to?

"I'm-I'm sorry, Hermione. It's just that your Mum's practicing for the pantomime and… Severus is helping. Oh, my life! You should _see_ her. She looks completely barmy!"

"I can imagine."

"It's brilliant! You'll love it."

"Right, Dad. Could you possibly put Severus on for me?"

"You want to speak to him?"

"Yes, please."

There was a murmur and a scuffling noise, and then the unmistakeable sound of Snape could be heard.

"Hello, Hermione. How are you?"

"What the _fuck_ was that noise?"

"That's good. I'm very well too, thank you."

"I almost had a heart attack!"

"Yes, she is doing well, isn't she?"

"You can't teach my mother to sound like Bellatrix Lestrange. It's completely inappropriate!"

"Much better than before, yes."

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

And then the three words that Hermione least expected ever to hear from the lips of Severus Snape slid gracefully out of the telephone and into her ear.

"I'm having fun."

"Are you having fun at my expense, Severus?"

Snape's smooth tones became a little less certain.

"I'm sorry? I don't follow you."

So he hadn't heard about the Malfoy Manor Cruciatus Extravaganza. Bellatrix and the Malfoys had obviously managed to keep_that_ little bit of panicked disloyalty Occluded from old snake-eyes. Should she burst his happy balloon and try to make him feel guilty by squeaking about war-time torture? If she told him he was an evil, thoughtless tosser for dragging up bad memories, she'd probably never see him again.

It took some effort, but Hermione swallowed her outrage.

"Never mind. I'll explain another time."

"You're here at the end of the week, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"I'll see you on Saturday evening, then. Stephen's having trouble breathing at the moment, so I'll pass you over to Angela—"

"No! I was in the bath when the phone rang, and I'm too cold to stand around talking!"

Snape's smooth tones got quieter and very smooth indeed.

"The bath? Don't you have a robe on or something?"

Shit!

"On second thoughts, put Mum on."

After a pause, Snape obliged.

"Darling! How's London? Any news on the boyfriend front?"

"Mum, please don't start that again!"

"No? Oh, well. Perhaps somebody will turn up soon. Severus has been awfully helpful, you know. I'm all set for the opening night!"

"Mum… I might have to work…"

"What your Dad was trying to tell you is that he's really looking forward to seeing you. He's booked a table for dinner at eight on Friday, so make sure you aren't late."

"Right, then. I'll see you both on Friday. Nice to speak to you. Give my love to Dad."

In Devon, Angela addressed the room.

"Hermione sends her love and says she can't wait to see you both!"

In London, Hermione kicked the wall with her cold, bare foot. It hurt.

"Mum. I'm begging you. Please don't humiliate me!"

Angela Granger chuckled wickedly.

"I'm sure Severus is really looking forward to seeing you, too."

"You're a cow, Mum! I'm hanging up now."

"Love you too, darling. See you soon!"

As soon as Hermione got back into her bath, she realised that Saturday's date was February the fourteenth. She shook her head in bewilderment as she realised she'd be spending Valentine's Day with her dad and Severus Snape, watching her mum imitate Bellatrix Lestrange in a village pantomime.

* * *

The village hall was a single-storey, late Victorian building with a steeply pitched roof. It reeked of floor polish and old-aged pensioners. Most of the hall was filled with rows of stackable grey, plastic chairs, except for a two-foot high stage at one end that was cunningly concealed behind a very big pair of faded green, velvet curtains. 

As Hermione and her father waited to be shown to their seats, they could hear snatches of other people's conversation.

"If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times. That tree has _got_ to come down…"

"So _I_ said, 'Give him a mangelwurzel; he'll eat that'!"

"Hope the raffle's better than last time. I've had that jar of runner bean chutney in the cupboard ever since…"

An elderly and officious gentleman in a blazer and regimental tie bent to scrutinise Hermione's ticket just as Severus Snape appeared behind them.

"Evening, Stephen, Hermione. Happy Valentine's Day."

Hermione immediately swivelled to face Snape, inadvertently pulling her ticket away from their would-be usher. Stephen Granger smiled to himself, produced his ticket instead and glanced over his shoulder.

"Hello, Severus. You haven't brought me a rose, and I've been banking on it for weeks!"

Snape flicked an eyebrow at Hermione, causing her toes to wiggle a bit with suppressed excitement. He looked even better than she'd remembered. Especially when he smiled at her father and said, "But I was expecting a scroll of scented parchment containing a sonnet composed in my honour! Both of us seem destined for disappointment – we can only hope that tonight's entertainment will ease the pain."

Hermione's dad laughed so loudly that the usher holding his ticket took a pace back and collided with a large lady in a mauve jacket. By the time he'd disentangled himself and smoothed his moustache, Snape had directed Stephen, then Hermione, into two of their seats, snagged the aisle seat for himself and begun to negotiate with the lady selling raffle tickets. Hermione silently celebrated the fact that Snape had apparently chosen to sit next to her.

"Here you are, Stephen. You can have some pink raffle tickets instead of a rose. And here are some green ones for Hermione. Three-hundred-and-ninety-four looks like a lucky number to me."

Hermione accepted her strip of raffle tickets with a pretty blush and a not entirely steady hand. Was Snape suggesting they were a substitute for a rose in her case, too? Did they count as a Valentine's Day present? Why were his eyes glittering with secret mirth again?

The lights in the hall were lowered, and the chatter of the audience died away. A pianist began to play the overture. She was absolutely abysmal, and it took Hermione all of fifteen seconds to succumb to a fit of silent giggles. Snape and Hermione's dad both fell victim a minute later as the curtains opened, the stage lights went up and fifteen inhabitants of Slapton Poppleford dressed as pantomime 'villagers' comprehensively butchered 'Oh What a Beautiful Morning' in the name of amateur dramatics.

The song ended, the audience applauded and after some very bad jokes and a bit of slapstick comedy involving a fake custard pie, Mrs Kipling the baker's wife informed the audience that the Queen had given birth to a baby daughter called Rose. There would be a big party up at the castle (she pointed to the back of the stage where a passable picture of a castle on a hill could be seen). All the fairies in Pantoland were, of course, invited to attend.

As the villagers noisily exited the stage, wobbling scenery as they went, and four pre-teen girls inexplicably began a rather risqué dance-routine, Snape pulled a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_, a pen and a bar of Honeydukes chocolate out of his coat pocket. He passed the chocolate to Hermione and bent his head to whisper in her ear, "Your Mum's only in the next scene, one just before the interval and a bit right at the end. What are the odds that we can do the whole of today's crossword in between?"

Hermione gave Snape her best charming smile and whispered back, "Pretty good. Especially if that's dark chocolate."

"It's milk chocolate with raisins and hazelnuts, actually."

"In that case, we'd better get cracking straight away."

A wave of lemony aftershave and a huff of warm breath against Hermione's ear as Snape signalled his agreement was enough to make her girlie bits tingle delightfully. A heady combination of Severus Snape, a crossword, chocolate and a dark, crowded room was rapidly turning the evening into the kinkiest experience she'd ever had. While the audience enthusiastically applauded the dancers off stage, she opened the chocolate and broke off a piece for her father. Snape put his hand back in his pocket and silently caused the crossword section of the paper to glow gently.

"Handy spell if you want to see something while the Muggles can't," he murmured against her earlobe. "My Mum used to like reading in bed, but my Dad was a light sleeper."

Hermione nodded, not registering what Snape had told her. She'd shut her eyes as soon as his nose touched her temple. She had goose pimples in places she'd never even felt before. As she opened her eyes and took in the sight of fifteen villagers hastily reincarnated as fairy godmothers and godfathers, Hermione struggled to pull herself together. It was time to act intelligently, despite all physical urging to the contrary. It was time to do the crossword.

By the time Angela Granger leapt onto the rickety stage in a burst of green light, mad hair and insane cackling, they'd filled in three clues. As Snape observed Hermione's wide eyes and very obvious flinch with an increasingly uncomfortable level of understanding, Angela strutted her stuff.

"How dare you throw a party?

How dare you celebrate?

I was not invited,

And they stopped me at the gate!

"I am Belladonna,

A fairy of renown.

I'm not used to hearing bouncers

Say that my name isn't down.

"Forget me at your peril.

Ignore me and you'll pay.

I'll curse your little princess.

I'll make you rue this day.

"When the girl is spotty.

When she's always in a mood.

She'll wander where she shouldn't.

She'll ignore you, and she'll brood.

"She'll find a spinning wheel.

Your advice she will ignore.

She'll prick her precious digit,

And her life will be no more!"

The audience booed and hissed loudly. Angela, aka, the Fairy Belladonna, cackled evilly and aimed a rather realistic wand threateningly at the loudest people. A small boy in the front row began to cry.

"You can't do that!" exclaimed the King after an uncomfortably long pause because he'd forgotten it was his turn to speak.

"Watch me!" shrieked Angela. "_Punctum Pollex!_"

With a bang and a puff of smoke from a theatrical flash, she vanished from sight. The audience gasped, and the tearful tot could be heard asking his mummy whether it was really magic. Hermione stared. Her mum was bringing the house down. Snape had got it exactly right; the twisted and crazed and absurdly melodramaticBellatrix Lestrange_was_ a perfect pantomime baddie, and the fact that a Muggle was taking advantage of it, even unwittingly, was the icing on the cake.

"Oh, look," murmured Snape, as a good fairy told everybody with unconvincing optimism that things would be fine because falling asleep for a hundred years was far better than dying. "Here's a clue for me: 'Fundamentally like a really bad apple.' Six, two, three, four."

"Rotten to the core," Hermione hissed back immediately.

Snape scribbled for a moment or two. It was odd seeing him wield a biro with such familiarity.

"Absolutely right. I appear to have, 'Made a resounding mistake', in three words – seven, one, seven, by the way – for want of a better phrase."

Hermione pondered this with narrowed eyes. In the meantime, the two middle-aged men who had been responsible for the custard pie shenanigans in the first scene began a discussion about whether or not Princess Rose was the moodiest teenager in Pantoland. The audience was asked to take sides in the argument and bellowed, several times in fact, that 'oh, yes, she was'. Even Snape and Hermione's father joined in at one point.

Eventually, the argumentative men were replaced by the King and Queen of Pantoland. The children in the audience found the fact that the queen was actually a man in a dress terribly amusing. Especially when the king pinched the queen's bum, and the queen squealed like a pig. The conversation turned to more serious matters, though, including the chances of the princess finding a nice, rich husband (which might seem a little harsh for a sixteen-year-old English girl, but stranger things have happened in fiction).

"You've dropped a clanger!" exclaimed Hermione excitedly, forgetting to whisper very quietly right into Snape's ear.

"Shhhhh!" said a lady in the row behind.

Snape turned round in his chair and stared at the woman. She fiddled with the straps of her handbag and gazed pointedly at the stage in an, 'I haven't a clue who shushed you' manner until he faced the front again. He sighed, stretched his legs out into the aisle, crossed his ankles and leant back until his head was almost resting on Hermione's shoulder. By this time, the king and the queen were singing a duet about the joys of marriage.

"This is why I don't have friends. Things go swimmingly for a while, and then I go and do something inexcusably idiotic. You obviously knew Bella better than I thought."

"About half an hour's worth of chewing the Malfoys' carpet better," whispered Hermione, remembering to be very quiet this time and tilting her head so that her nose was actually in Snape's hair before she spoke.

She got a good sniff at the same time. Unsurprisingly, it smelt like hair. Luckily, it didn't smell like dirty or smoky hair. Instead, it smelt faintly of coal tar, just like the more expensive kind of anti-dandruff shampoo.

"I doubt you care, but I really didn't know."

"I do care, actually. It's fine. Mum's good. She'll be really happy."

Stephen Granger turned towards them and found his daughter nose-deep in his friend's hair. His friend didn't seem to mind at all, but all the people seated around them were ignoring the on-stage action and watching Snape and Hermione with varying degrees of hostility. Stephen leant over and berated his daughter in an awkward undertone.

"Will you sit up straight and be quiet! You're disturbing the natives!"

Hermione and Snape obliged instantaneously. They might both have been blushing painfully, but it was too dark in the village hall to tell.

Note: The shampoo Snape uses is T-Gel. It is also supposed to be good for conditions such as Psoriasis.


	4. Chapter 4

All the usual disclaimer statements apply here. I'd like to take a moment to blow my own trumpet by stating that this chapter was written _before_ JKR's big announcement regarding one Albus Dumbedore. Please don't flap and worry about me being homophobic, you'd waste your time as nothing could be further from the truth.

Minor revisions have been made to this chapter since it was first posted at the SSHG Exchange on livejournal. This is due to a bit of additional research, and if you first read the story on the exchange you might possibly spot the difference but you might well not.

Beta-of-Dreams: Melusin

**Chapter 4: Rate of Exchange.**

When the Fairy Belladonna reappeared on stage, to gloat (in terrible verse) about the inevitable stupidity of teenagers and the success of spinning-wheel related revenge plotting, Hermione flinched again. Snape didn't move a muscle, but she thought she heard a sad little sigh from his direction. This was pleasing. What better way to make an impression on Snape than to act in a graciously forgiving manner?

To ensure that he wouldn't be expecting leniency, Hermione pocketed his chocolate and spent the interval either in the toilet or talking at great length to a nonplussed Miss Anning about the effect of damp weather on her arthritic joints. She didn't win anything in the raffle, and she pointedly shared the rest of the chocolate with her father during the second act.

To the evident pleasure of many of the male members of the audience, Prince Charming (a leggy primary school teacher, called Sarah) managed to find the castle, kiss Princess Rose and sing in tune. Once the princess was awake, Fairy Belladonna repentantly promised to mend her ways and attend anger management therapy. The audience joined in for a sing-along (apart from Snape, whose eyebrow shot skywards as he watched Hermione and Stephen trying to out-bellow each other), and the children were all fed just enough sweets to make them very difficult to put to bed. At last, Angela Granger was given a deafening round of applause and swept off to the pub for an after-show party and lock-in. The Village Pantomime was over for another year.

As Stephen, Hermione and Snape exited the village hall, it began to rain. Stephen grumbled about having to get the car out to give his tipsy wife a lift home in the small hours of the morning and stalked off for a well-earned mug of tea at home. Snape waited until he and Hermione were alone, Summoned an orb spider from the hedge across the road and neatly Transfigured it into a golfing umbrella big enough to shelter them both. Moseying home at night, whatever the weather, appeared to be a speciality of his.

"Have I sunk beneath reproach?" he asked diffidently.

"Several times, I would imagine. You must be used to it by now."

"Touché."

"Not to worry. Even my oldest friends manage to thoroughly piss me off on a regular basis, you know. Harry is actually to blame for the Bellatrix incident. The Taboo slipped his mind when he lost his temper."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm not _that_ much of an idiot!"

"Historical evidence suggests otherwise, I'm afraid. It only takes a bit of effort to get back into my good books, though."

"Define, 'a bit'."

"Oh, I think that's something you need to figure out for yourself."

Snape twirled the umbrella one way and then the other. Drops of water span off in all directions.

"Would sausage and mash and a bottle of red at my house do the trick?"

"With onion gravy?"

"Naturally."

"And peas and ketchup?"

"Ketchup _and_ gravy?"

"Absolutely."

"You drive a hard and culinarily questionable bargain."

"It's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

"I have strong reservations, but I suppose I deserve them. I'm just surprised there are no hot coals and bare feet involved."

"Has _anyone_ ever just given you the benefit of the doubt?"

Snape pursed his lips while he thought.

"Well, Dumbledore did, at least partly. Although, I doubt he'd have been quite so lenient if he didn't have a bit of a weakness for angry young men."

"You're pulling my leg!"

"I am not. The old queen had two preferences, both of which involved a Y chromosome."

It took her half a minute.

"Effeminate, or a bit Dark?"

"Clever girl. He also decided that if his Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers were only going to hang around for a year, he may as well have something nice to look at each time."

"I can understand Quirrell, Lockhart, Remus and you, but surely Mad-Eye Moody was pushing it … ?"

Snape grinned nastily.

"On the contrary. Moody was the only one of us that Dumbledore had ever had a _relationship_ with. I bet Barty Crouch Junior had the shock of his life when he arrived at Hogwarts."

They sniggered, glanced sideways at each other, and sniggered again. By this time, they had reached the end of the lane where Snape's house was located. He gave Hermione directions, and they arranged dinner for the following Saturday. Before Snape disappeared into the darkness, he chivalrously handed over the umbrella.

* * *

On Monday, Hermione found out that the Ministry library had _no books_ about wizarding finance.

On Tuesday, she found out that the Hogwarts library had _no books_ about wizarding finance.

On Wednesday, Hermione had a haircut, went shopping for clothes with Ginny and sent an owl to Bill Weasley. He didn't reply.

By Thursday lunchtime, Bill still hadn't replied. Kingsley Shacklebolt was rather surprised about receiving an unscheduled Floo call, but he accepted it and listened to Hermione's enquiry with every appearance of polite attention.

"But the goblins sort out all the money stuff, Hermione," he said. "They seem to do a good job, and I'd rather not piss them off by trying to get involved."

"So there isn't any information about financial policy kept at the Ministry?"

"No. We haven't needed it since the end of the Goblin Wars, and frankly, we need to free up all the archive space we can. If you insist on gathering information for this silly report, I suggest you try Gringotts."

On Friday, Hermione went to the bank and asked the assistant manager where she could get information about magical economics, financial law or fiscal policy. The assistant manager smiled at her, showing all his pointy teeth and lovingly flicking his forked tongue over his eyeballs.

"We have an extensive library. All the information you require should be available there."

"Can I see it?"

"Of course, madam."

"Excellent. Could you show me where it is?"

"You need to fill in an application form, in triplicate, and send it to the manager by registered owl. He'll arrange an appointment for you. For the appointment, you'll need to check your bag, coat and wand in with security. I assume you are fluent in Gobbledygook?"

"Ah. No. Afraid not."

"I believe eight books in the library are illustrated. The photographs of the refurbished Gringotts Albania branch are _particularly_ interesting."

Hermione took an application form and went straight to Flourish and Blotts to look at 'Teach yourself Gobbledygook' books. She found out that the goblin alphabet had forty-four characters and Apparated home in a very bad mood indeed.

* * *

Entirely unsure which category of social interaction sausage and mash at Snape's house fell in to, Hermione told herself sternly not to get overexcited and that Snape was only trying to apologise for being an insensitive arse.

The level of primping required was therefore a subtle and many-layered question. If she exfoliated, waxed, plucked, moisturized, painted her nails and put on her best underwear, she would be prepared for anything. But she might be going to a lot of trouble for absolutely no reason. She might also be stacking the odds against herself – past experience told her that a tidy bikini line _and_ smooth legs seemed to significantly reduce her pulling power while time-of-the-month pants and furry legs made her irresistible.

After an hour and a half in the bathroom, and half an hour of staring at her wardrobe, a compromise was reached. Smooth legs and armpits but untamed pubes. Clean hair and tidy eyebrows but no nail varnish. Eyeliner and mascara but no eyeshadow. Toothpaste and mouthwash but no floss. Matching underwear but no silk or lace. A short skirt, with thick tights and flat-heeled boots. A clingy jumper half concealed by a denim jacket.

The little mirror over the dressing table giggled and told Hermione that she was wearing exactly the same sort of outfit that she'd worn for a date in Hogsmeade with Viktor Krum, except that she was now three sizes bigger. A flurry of fabric later, and she was dressed in black tailored trousers, the clingy black jumper and high-heeled boots. She hoped that she didn't look too much like Severus Snape's little sister. A vision of matching clothes, an enormous candlelit table, loudly scraping cutlery and a veritable army of house-elves threatened to overwhelm her.

When he opened the front door, Snape was, in fact, wearing a battered pair of cords and a maroon hoody. He had a tea towel slung over his shoulder, an oven glove on one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He eyed Hermione for a moment, thrust the bottle into her hands, told her to take off her shoes and open the wine and then hurriedly disappeared down a corridor that presumably led to the kitchen.

Not too formal, then.

On one side of the hall, a door was slightly ajar, so she struggled out of her boots, picked up the wine again and toddled off to explore. The door led to a large sitting room, complete with bookshelves, art deco lampshades, an open fire, an enormous sofa and a useful looking hearthrug. On one wall, there was a rather good seascape. Every now and then, shafts of sunlight broke through clouds and sparkled on the water.

"Have you got that wine open, yet?"

Snape entered the room, dangling two gently tinkling wineglasses from his fingers.

"No, I haven't. Sorry."

"Well, hurry up. I'm gasping."

The charmed cork made a satisfying popping noise. Snape poured, handed Hermione a glass and chinked his against it before drinking.

"I thought we'd have dinner in the kitchen, but it's a bit chaotic at the moment. I hope you're hungry."

"Starving. I've had a shitty week, and I'm hoping the onion gravy will cheer me up."

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, just work. I don't suppose you know Gobbledygook, do you?"

"That would depend on exactly what you want to know about. We can talk about it while we eat, if you like."

"Yes, please. I like your painting, by the way. Who's it by?"

"It's an early Edmund Diggory. Eighteen-seventy-five, if memory serves me correctly."

Hermione immediately padded over for a closer look.

"Bloody hell! It must be worth a—"

"—If you're very lucky, one day I might tell you precisely how much it is worth. But now I need to deal with the peas and see if the washing up has calmed down. I'll be back in a moment."

Hermione simply nodded and continued to stare at the painting. She decided that she was very, very interested in what Snape did for a living. She also wondered why a man who owned a million Galleon painting didn't have a house-elf.

The man in question informed her in an acidic tone that the idea of having somebody around who was forced to follow his orders made him want to vomit. And that free house-elves were so trendy nowadays that available ones were as rare as hen's teeth.

They only got around to talking about work when Hermione was dunking a piece of her last sausage into the mess of ketchup and gravy she'd created. Snape's gaze swivelled several times between his plate and the tomato sauce before he gave in to temptation and reached for the bottle, saying, "So what did you want to know about Gobbledygook for?" in what might have been an attempt to distract her from what he was doing.

"You know I'm working for the Muggle Prime Minister?"

"Mmmm."

"Well, he wasn't satisfied with the usual spiel from the Minister of Magic about witches and wizards. He wanted _details_.

"Ah."

"It's too risky to Obliviate the Prime Minister. I mean, look what happened to the American president! Kingsley thought it would be a good idea to have me writing incredibly long-winded reports on the list of things that Bob wants to know about, and eventually he'd get bored, or voted out, and that would be that."

"Bob?"

"Yes, Bob. He's a nice chap, actually. A bit of a stickler for paperwork, though, and _very_ interested in money."

"Didn't he used to be the Chancellor before Chris had his little episode?"

"That's right … Did you say _Chris?_"

"We went to the same primary school. He was a sneaky little bastard even then."

"Goodness me. Your school must have been interesting, what with you and Lily ..."

"Don't change the subject."

"Right. Sorry. Where was I?"

"Very interested in money."

"That's it. Bob wants to know all about how Wizarding Britain finances itself. From a couple of comments he made about police and streetlights, I get the impression that he's thinking of trying to make non-Muggles pay some form of Council Tax."

Snape inhaled the wine he was in the process of sipping. It was a good job he was wearing maroon. He wiped his nose and eyes on his napkin, directed warm air from his wand against his chest and glared damply at Hermione.

"Absolutely _not_ going to happen."

"Would it be so very bad? I could help set up a reduced rate. The money could be taken straight from people's vaults and converted into sterling at Gringotts."

"No!"

"I thought you'd got over your Muggle issues!"

"It's got nothing to do with that!"

"Pull the other one, Snape."

"Listen to me, Hermione. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be a very good reason why the goblins are in charge of the Galleons? Why all the knowledge is in Gobbledygook? Why all the people you've spoken to don't seem to be interested?"

"Goblins are good at mining. And they love gold more than anything."

"Granted. But can you think of any other reason?"

"No."

Snape stood up, thrust his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of loose change. He sat back down again and dropped the money onto the kitchen table before picking up a Galleon.

"Hold out your hand."

He dropped the heavy gold coin into Hermione's palm. "What is this?"

"It's a Galleon."

"What is it made of?"

"Gold."

"How much do you think it weighs?"

"I don't know."

"Each coin weighs a little over half an ounce. There's a bit of other stuff in it to stop it being too malleable, but there is exactly half an ounce of pure gold in that Galleon."

Light was beginning to dawn. Hermione's eyes widened as Snape ate his last mouthful of mashed potato.

"What is the current price of Muggle gold in the UK?" he asked a trifle thickly.

"I don't know. I've never thought about it."

"_Exactly_. And you're not bloody well supposed to think about it, either. For your information, an ounce of gold is currently worth three-hundred-and-seventy-three pounds, forty-eight pence."

"Fuck me!"

"If you worked out a charm to make this Galleon look like an American Eagle, you could sell it for four-hundred and ten dollars incredibly easily. _That_ is why the goblins look after the money, and the good little witches and wizards are conditioned not to pay close attention. Things used to be easier because the Muggles traded mostly in silver – although Sickles turned up all over the shop. Then the Spanish conquered the Aztecs, Muggles got more and more reliant on gold and the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy came into effect.

"If Bob the Prime-sodding-Minister demands we pay any Muggle taxes at all, don't you think people would begin to pay more attention to Muggle money again? Don't you think they might enquire as to the value of gold?"

"I don't know. Mr Weasley never seems to have much of a clue, and he's Muggle-mad."

"Arthur is a crass amateur. But even his interest would be piqued if part of his income suddenly started to disappear in the direction of Devon County Council. If the truth got out, it would spread like wildfire. Even the lowest wizarding salary is worth a fortune in Muggle money. We'd cause absolute mayhem in the Muggle financial markets; Gringotts would be drained of resource within a week and the wizarding economy would come to a standstill because of the lack of currency. Goblin gold is a finite resource that has to be continually recycled or we're toast. The usual rules of supply and demand that govern interest rates and inflation still apply, but having one currency throughout the world and one bank responsible for the manufacture – and release or reserve – of additional coinage makes things a lot easier to control."

"How do you _know_ all this?"

"You're looking at Gringotts International's chief of security. It's my job to know. If you ever tell anybody that, or anything else I've told you, I'm afraid I'll have to hunt you down and Obliviate you so hard, you'll make Lockhart look like a genius."

Snape was nothing if not convincing. Hermione dropped the Galleon and raised her palms towards him in surrender.

"Fine! I get it. My lips are sealed. No wonder Bill didn't return my owl."

"Bill Weasley didn't return your owl because I told him not to."

"Oh, god! Did you know about this all along?"

"I knew you were making extremely indiscreet enquiries. Given our… friendship, I thought I'd wait and see if you talked about it voluntarily. Have you mentioned any of this to your friends?"

"No, they still think I'm filing for Magical Law Enforcement and writing revisions for _Hogwarts: A History_. Kingsley told me to keep this job quiet in case any of the purebloods got their knickers in a twist about it."

"Well, that's a bonus. Do you want some more wine?" 

A horrible thought edged into the corner of Hermione's mind. Once it was there, it was impossible to get rid of.

"Did you ask me to dinner to find out what I'm up to?"

Snape put the wine bottle down and gazed at her unblinkingly.

"No, I did not. If you remember, _I_ asked you to dinner before _you_ started asking awkward questions."

"But as soon as I told you I was working on both sides of the fence, the alarm bells must have started to ring. How can I be sure that you've been genuinely friendly? How can I be sure that you aren't going to modify my memory before I go home? It's a pretty big risk letting me leave with all the information you've given me."

"I was planning to trust you, actually."

"_Why?_ What makes me different from other people? You don't know me very well, and I haven't sworn an oath or anything."

Snape stood up again abruptly. He turned away from the table and rested his hands against the edge of the kitchen sink. The washing up gurgled at him soothingly, as if the plates were nervous about being smashed. When he spoke, it was in the icy whisper that used to be so effective in the classroom.

"You need to show the Prime Minister something convincing enough to satisfy his curiosity, which will put him off pushing for money. If that doesn't work, I'll have to Obliviate him. We'll sort out the document at Gringotts and let you convert it into your usual format. It's too risky to use owl post, so I will deliver it personally on Friday afternoon."

"Severus?"

"Hermione. It seems that the benefit of the doubt only extends so far. I assume you can see yourself out?"

* * *

Notes: 

1. A lock-in occurs when a pub shuts its doors for the night but lets some of the locals stay and keep drinking after-hours. 

2. Goblins who can lick their eyeballs appear in the Artemis Fowl books by Eoin Culfer.

3. Hoody is an abbreviation for hooded sweater. It is used ironically here, as badly behaved teenagers in England are often referred to as hoodies because of their sweaters.

4. For the benefit of the non-Brits: Everybody who pays rent or owns a property in England, who isn't exempt because they are a student or on disability payments etc., pays Council Tax. This goes to local government and pays for things like road maintenance, the police, schools and local facilities. Income tax is also paid and this goes to central government.

5. One troy ounce is equal to 31.1 grams.


	5. Chapter 5

All the usual disclaimer statements apply here.

Huge thanks to my beta, Melusin.

**Chapter 5: Humble Pie and Fillet Steak.**

Hermione didn't know how to react. She'd never been kicked out of somebody's house for being offensive before. Stomping her feet and slamming the door didn't seem quite right, and besides, it would have taken considerable effort and looked utterly ridiculous because she was in her socks. She opted for a quiet, graceful retreat, managed not to scrape her chair against the floor too loudly and deliberately neglected to shut the kitchen door on her way out. By the time she reached the front hall, she'd broken into the cold sweat of absolute mortification. When she realised that she'd have to put her boots back on before she could leave, the concept of a dignified exit bit the dust completely.

The first sob erupted noisily and nasally as Hermione sat on the hall carpet, tugging on her left boot. It was followed by a tear, which dangled for a long moment from the end of her nose before dripping onto the third finger of her left hand where it shimmered spitefully. More tears followed. Much as she tried to keep the blubbing to a minimum, the sniffling noises were an absolute giveaway. And her right boot refused to cooperate, taking two shaky attempts and a frustrated whimper before it slid into place on her foot. She crawled on all-fours to the door and heaved herself upright using the door handle before tottering weepily out into the darkness and disappearing with a damp _pop_ – a shining example of feminine pathos as a consequence of shameful behaviour.

Arriving home to a cold, dark flat, Hermione washed off her carefully applied (and now liberally streaked) makeup. The water pipes shuddered and clanked eerily as the hot water tank refilled, making her skin prickle at the idea of being there alone. Snape had not even pointed his wand in her direction, let alone modified her memory of the evening, but for once in her life, Hermione forgot to think rationally. An insidious internal moan of _I've lost him, I've lost him, I've lost him ..._ made her stomach roil, so she concentrated on the possibility of retribution instead.

Wandering aimlessly from the bathroom to the kitchen and back again three or four times, Hermione began to ponder the fact that her Gringotts account was registered to the flat's address. If they knew where she lived, and what she knew, they could find her and deal with her as they saw fit, regardless of who her friends were. She imagined a hoard of goblins bursting through her front door, waving homemade wands and squealing, "_Obliviate!_"

Almost immediately, she ransacked her wardrobe, her drinks cabinet, her bookshelves, and her poorly stocked kitchen cupboards before throwing the results into her handbag. She locked the door of her flat and Apparated to number 12, Grimmauld Place, arriving at precisely ten p.m.

Mercifully, the children were asleep and Ginny was in the bath, enjoying a rare period of 'quiet time'. Harry stood in the hall looking utterly bemused at Hermione's out-of-the-blue request for the use of his tent for a few days.

"It's night-time in February, Hermione. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine! It's just that I've … I've had a disagreement with the goblins over my bank balance, and they turned a bit nasty. I thought I ought to make myself scarce for a few days until they calm down a bit, and I don't want to worry my parents."

Given the ridiculous nature of her excuse, it was a shock when Harry nodded understandingly and began to rifle through the cupboard-under-the-stairs.

"They're buggers, aren't they?" he muttered in a don't-wake-the-baby undertone. "I was worried that they wouldn't be able to resist helping themselves to any goblin-made items they came across, so I asked to see if they had an inventory of the contents of my vault. They weren't helpful at all and actually got rather aggressive with me. I was so fed up that I exchanged all my gold for pounds at the bureau de change and put my inheritance into a building society instead. The interest rate is very good there; Ron's moved his savings over, too."

Hermione choked on her own saliva and coughed very loudly until the stuttering wail of a baby began on the first floor. Harry thrust his tent into the handbag she was holding open for him and dashed upstairs to soothe his daughter back to sleep, just as Ginny started to yell at him from her bath. From the sound of things, Harry wouldn't be back any time soon, so Hermione simply shut the cupboard door and Apparated quietly away.

Until Harry mentioned his inheritance, Hermione hadn't got around to considering the way her parents had changed money at Gringotts to pay for school things. She could remember the counter at the end of the bank's impressively marbled hall. The same goblin always seemed to be on duty when they visited, and he always seemed to be in a funny mood – something she'd attributed to the fact that he was dealing with Muggles. On the wall behind him, a parchment displaying that day's exchange rate in pounds to the Galleon hung in a heavy gold frame. Occasionally, the numbers had changed while they watched, in an odd pastiche of the constantly flickering LED screens she'd seen in the windows of Muggle bureau de changes. The exact numbers on the wall at Gringotts evaded her memory, but there was definitely always a five or a six involved. The six meant her father grumbled, the five meant he ignored her mother's anti-sugar rhetoric and bought her an ice-cream. Numbers such as three-hundred-and-seventy-three had definitely _not_ been displayed.

The mystery occupied Hermione nicely as she put a warm jumper and a coat on and then airily waved her wand, smirking at the incantation required to erect Harry's tent in a fraction of the time it would have taken him to do the same job. She cast the usual series of protective charms and checked that the sheets and duvet on one of the large camp beds were clean, in case Ginny hadn't done the washing. Satisfied that she'd chosen the last place people would expect her to visit, she cracked open a bottle of vodka, unwrapped a bar of Dairy Milk and got thoroughly stuck in to both.

* * *

Chocolate and vodka partially aided the digestion of a large piece of humble pie. Lying in her camp bed for hours on end, reading romance novels, helped in the short-term, too. But every time the realisation that she'd blown the chance of further interaction with a man she desperately fancied – who had voluntarily cooked her dinner at his 17th century Devonshire farmhouse – hit her, Hermione suffered a severe setback. She spent the week self-pityingly reacquainting herself with the experience of sitting around doing nothing, not eating properly, and crying herself to sleep over a man. It was even worse than the last time she'd gone camping because she couldn't blame the situation on somebody else, and because she'd spent twelve years being jolly careful not to get into that sort of state again.

By the early hours of Wednesday morning, Hermione had run out of booze. By noon, she'd finished her last book, and her hangover had begun to recede. She ate a truly disgusting Pot-Noodle and decided to go for a little walk, in an attempt to cheer herself up. Sunlight filtered easily through bare branches, and the lack of wind emphasised the absolute peace of the spot she'd Apparated to. Using a 'Point Me' spell to help keep her bearings, Hermione spent a pleasant two hours watching great-tits and wrens flit through the undergrowth and listening to greater-spotted woodpeckers hammering the hell out of any dead tree they could find. Clumps of wild daffodils signalled the approach of spring. Perhaps camping without the added presence of two teenaged boys or a guilty conscience would be fun. At least the new tent didn't require the use of sleeping bags.

Feeling much better, and genuinely sleepy for the first time in four days, she found the tent again without too much difficulty, toed off her shoes and crawled straight back into bed. She decided that – if she was feeling brave enough the following morning – she'd Apparate to her parents' garden, get some much-needed proper food, and then go and stand outside Snape's house until he agreed to listen to her profuse apology. It was stalker-like behaviour, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and at least he'd be familiar with her tactics.

The tent was therefore pitch-black and filled with the sound of gentle snoring before a silver, four-legged creature wandered in and lit the place up like a full moon on steroids. Hermione woke with a snort and a squeak, and found herself confronted by a goat, which butted the camp bed moodily as a stern voice said, "Come outside where I can see you. I owe Bill Weasley a case of Old Ogden's for helping to track you down."

Hermione rubbed her eyes in sleepy disbelief, but the goat remained visible. It tossed its head and dissipated abruptly, plunging the tent back into darkness. She scrambled out of bed, pulled her shoes on and grabbed her wand. Beyond her ring of protective enchantments stood a deeply frowning Severus Snape – who was wearing a black business suit, a white shirt and a plum-coloured silk tie.

"Backpacking in the Forest of Dean? Whatever possessed you?"

Hermione simply stared. Even in the blue-white light of his wand, Snape looked fabulous. His gaze flicked over her grubby jeans and tangled hair.

"Have you got anything smarter to wear? We've got an appointment in ten minutes."

"What? What's the time? What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"I'm here to escort you to Gringotts; it's seven-thirty in the evening, and for somebody who can't bear camping, you seem to end up in these woods rather often."

"_Gringotts?_"

"Yes. A colleague of mine has stayed at work later than usual especially, so try and be polite."

"Am I in a lot of trouble?"

Snape frowned again.

"Yes. But not necessarily with the goblins. Although you will be, if you don't get a bloody move on!"

Hermione dashed back to the tent, went to the loo, put on her black trousers and boots and put her hair up in a ponytail. She was about to start packing up when Snape said, "Leave it! We can come back for the tent later. It's not as if we won't be able to find it."

Then he took her cold little hand in his large, warm one and Side-Along Apparated her to the shadows just outside the very obviously locked doors of Gringotts Bank.

* * *

Hermione turned towards Snape, at which point he gently released her hand.

"Your Patronus is a goat," she whispered.

Snape nodded gravely. "So I've noticed. It seems to have changed into the animal that caused Albus Dumbledore the greatest degree of embarrassment. It wasn't conscious on my part, but I can't help liking it after the old bastard manipulated me so much. It's a welcome change as well – you can imagine how I felt about Potter and I having his and hers Patronuses."

It was a very welcome change as far as Hermione was concerned, too, and she might have said so if an enormously fat goblin hadn't appeared through a little hidden door and croaked, "Severus! You've found her, then."

Snape stooped and followed the goblin back through the little door, giving Hermione a wonderful view of his bottom as she followed in turn.

"Indeed I have," pronounced Snape as he stood up straight and rolled his shoulders. "Hermione, this is the staff resources director of Gringotts International, Hammerkop. Hammerkop, this is Miss Hermione Granger."

Remembering Snape's warning about being polite, Hermione bent down to shake the goblin's hand.

"Well then, Miss Granger. What _are_ we going to do with you?" he grunted wheezily.

Hermione wisely said nothing.

"I think a guided tour of the highlights and a spot of dinner are in order."

Hermione's eyes widened, but Snape nodded in agreement and held his hand out again.

"I'll need to lock your wand up while you're behind the scenes. It would spontaneously combust otherwise."

"So _you're_ the one responsible for the wand restrictions here now!"

"Among other things, yes. Let's not keep Hammerkop from his dinner any longer than necessary."

Rather grudgingly, Hermione handed over her wand and watched him slide it into the circular hole in the security desk by the door. A moment later, a parchment ticket fluttered out of a slit in the front of the desk and was deftly caught by Snape and handed to Hermione. Hammerkop folded his hands over his ample stomach and watched approvingly.

"Nothing like evening things up a bit, is there? You witches and wizards are mighty twitchy about letting go of your wands, but not enough to separate yourselves from your gold!"

Hermione watched Snape instinctively check the inside pocket of his jacket with envy. Her uncomfortably bare feeling was akin to the sensation she'd had during dreams in which she'd forgotten to put any clothes on before she went to breakfast in the Great Hall.

"Of course, our employees' wands are registered, and they may carry them anywhere in the bank," said Hammerkop with a smile and a cheerful flick of his tongue. "Follow me, and you can see what else Severus has been up to."

They walked on through the hall until they reached a pair of doors guarded by two particularly mean looking goblins. The pair bowed respectfully at both Hammerkop and Snape before opening the doors that led to Gringotts' infamous rail system. Instead of a wooden mining cart, a smart carriage sat waiting, complete with sports suspension and a row of little doors, each leading to a red velvet seat.

"I've never seen this before," said Hermione.

"Of course not! You don't think we'd make the wizarding customers' journey to our vaults any more comfortable than necessary, do you?" replied Hammerkop. "Hop in, and you can ride like the staff do."

It was comfy. It was fun. Especially when Snape leant forwards in his seat and rested his hands on Hermione's shoulders so he could whisper in her ear.

"Look up. No more _Defodio_ for you these days – and not a dragon in sight."

Usually, Hermione kept her eyes tightly shut while riding a cart to her bank vault. But as soon as she began to look around her, she realised the walls of the tunnel formed a smooth cylinder of what looked like steel. Any spell that hit the wall would find no point of weakness and would probably rebound and hit the spell caster. Hermione's mind boggled at the expense involved until Snape continued to murmur into her ear, "The goblins come across the required raw materials while they mine for precious metals and gems. They simply adapted one of their existing furnaces, built some new moulds for the wall sections, and I levitated each section into place. It took us six months to complete, and I've still got fifteen more branches on my to-do list. Merlin knows how the people running the London Underground cope!"

"They rarely do," replied Hermione.

At a junction in the line, the carriage smoothly took a left turn and passed a series of huge blast furnaces. Goblins swarmed and sparks danced. Rivers of molten metal ran under the rail tracks and into sets of ingot-shaped moulds.

"The furnaces haven't been this busy for years. We're stockpiling gold, silver and bronze!" shouted Hammerkop gleefully. "The baby-boom since the war means that the European wizarding population is on the increase. We'll need the extra currency once the little buggers start leaving school!"

A moment later, the tunnel narrowed again and began to curve down and to the right. Numerous vault doors began to appear, and as the carriage decelerated, Hermione realised they were approaching from the opposite direction than usual. They stopped at vault number 666. Snape gracefully slid out of his seat, stepped out of the carriage and pulled a little golden key out of his pocket. He inserted it in the vault's lock and then turned back to Hermione.

"My vault," he said. "Why don't you have a look?"

Hermione descended from the carriage and glanced up at the man beside her. In the flickering torchlight that surrounded them, she could see that Snape was smirking.

"No, thank you! I may have a reputation for curiosity, but I'm not overly keen on the cat killing part of it."

"I promise you faithfully that it won't hurt a bit."

Hermione strongly suspected that Snape was either about to put her trust to the test or teach her a nasty lesson. Behind them, Hammerkop chuckled quietly.

"Severus is nothing if not a man of his word, Miss Granger. The first time I met him, he said he'd never brew another potion and he'd never wear his robes again. It's been more than twelve years, and I'm still waiting!"

"No robes!" exclaimed Hermione.

"I can't exactly stroll into Gladrags for a fitting, can I?" said Snape with a dismissive shrug.

"No potions?"

"No beetle eyes, no mangled amphibians, no slugs, or snails, or puppy-dog tails. Bill's wife brews a mean Polyjuice, and after spending more than half my life in a Scottish dungeon, I'm impervious to the common cold. Now, stop procrastinating and open the vault. It's not often that I get to show off, and you know how much I enjoy it."

Hermione stepped forward with a huff of annoyance and gave the vault door handle a hefty yank. To her surprise, it opened so easily that she fell backwards and landed in Snape's open arms with a grunt. His chest felt warm and solid against her shoulders. The vault was absolutely empty.

"Impressive," muttered Hermione weakly.

Snape's hands slid across her stomach to her hips as he gently propped her upright again.

"Very," he muttered back. "Now, read this."

He dangled a parchment scroll in front of Hermione's face. She took it, shakily unrolled it and read the horribly familiar spiky handwriting:

'Severus Snape. Current Balance – G832,167 S4,522 K99'

When she looked up, the vault was still empty. Snape walked in, picked up a handful of nothing and walked back out. The handful of nothing promptly turned into five Galleons. Hermione's jaw dropped.

"So it isn't Secret Kept?"

"No, no. That would be far too easy to sidestep. Have you ever seen the Mirror of Erised?"

"No. Harry told me about it, though."

"In the mirror, you can only see what your heart truly desires. Nobody else can view the reflection, even if they stand directly beside you. At Hogwarts, I was so used to keeping my mind Occluded that I used to see the most random of things. Watching girl-on-girl action while Dumbledore fretted about hiding the Philosopher's Stone was pretty good fun, though."

Hermione rolled her eyes. At heart, all men were frighteningly similar.

"This enchantment works along the same principle," continued Snape. "Regardless of whether you've managed to steal somebody else's key, you can only ever see the contents of your own vault. And if you are not a member of staff, and you happen to be carrying a wand, then you can't see anything; a localised Fiendfyre takes care of the wand, and if the fire doesn't finish you off, a security-goblin certainly will."

"Now, now, Severus. No need to be patronising," croaked Hammerkop.

"Old habits die hard, Hammerkop. Especially when somebody like Harry Potter gives me the idea in the first place."

Hammerkop chuckled again and mimicked Harry in a strop. "'But I don't _know_ exactly what's in my vault. I didn't even know I _had_ a vault until I was eleven – and I never thought to _ask_ before!' His pretty little wife did though …"

Snape laughed as he shut the door of his vault and removed the key. Hermione couldn't help but grin appreciatively at the healthy cynicism on display.

"All high-security vaults in all of our branches carry the same enchantment, Hermione. Thefts have decreased by seventy-eight percent. If I'm not careful, I'll magic myself out of a job. And now, I think it's time for some dinner."

Hermione's much abused stomach rumbled loudly in agreement.

* * *

Hammerkop's personal caves were stunning. Romanesque under-floor heating kept the atmosphere warm and dry; the ceilings were covered in stalactites, which glittered prettily in the candlelight, and the walls were littered with display cases full of goblin-made _objet d'art_. The unlikely trio sat in intricately carved wooden chairs at a round oak table and stuffed themselves rotten with fillet steak, green beans and chips. To Hermione's delight, a bottle of ketchup stood next to the English mustard. When she smiled glowingly at Snape, he merely raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

As rhubarb crumble and custard appeared before them, Hermione finally plucked up the courage to ask why she was there.

Hammerkop eyed her appraisingly and croaked, "Given your past record, we feel that it would be better if we could keep a close eye on you. Severus here seems to think that memory modification would be a waste of valuable grey matter, and I'm inclined to agree. You already know our biggest secret, and you haven't spent the time since you found out attempting to sell gold to Muggles, so you're obviously not completely stupid."

Hermione let out an audible sigh of relief and tackled her crumble with renewed gusto. Hammerkop licked his lips (and his nose, and his eyes). He swallowed his helping of pudding in one gulp and began to serve himself seconds as he continued to speak.

"Our curse-breaking records are in a mess. Because we goblins don't deal with wand-lore, we tend to get confused when it comes to filing the field reports from Bill Weasley's team. It's best practice to have a complete set of records in the library at each of Gringotts' main branches, so that the curse-breakers can visit their nearest library to carry out their research."

Hermione nodded. International Floo travel was horrible and arranging a Portkey could take days.

"I understand you have several years of experience in the archives at the Ministry of Magic," said Hammerkop. "How would you feel about coming to work for us when you've finished whatever it is you're doing for Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

Hermione dropped her spoon.

"I can't even read Gobbledygook!"

"You can use translation charms to begin with, but we'd expect you to learn Gobbledygook as quickly as possible – as do all our human staff. We'd match your current salary, wizarding _and_ Muggle, in Galleons, and allow you to exchange the Muggle money you need to cover your mortgage and utility bills at the realistic rate. It's a perk of the job. Are you interested?"

"Where would I be working?"

Coffee cups, a cafetiere, a jug of single cream and a bowl of sugar appeared before them. Snape began to pour as Hammerkop took a deep breath.

"London, mainly. With the odd week in Athens, Moscow, Jerusalem, Cairo, Mumbai, Kuala-Lumpur, Beijing, Bankok, Manilla, Sydney, Cape Town, Nairobi, Yaoundé, Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Lima, Bridgetown, Toronto and Reykjavik. We have staff accommodation above ground in each city, of course."

"Nothing in the United States?" replied Hermione sarcastically as her insides danced a merry jig.

Hammerkop sighed as Snape grinned into his coffee cup.

"The curses are too widespread to make the country economically viable to investigate. We tried once, and inadvertently triggered a Muggle gold-rush."

Hermione took her time sipping and met Hammerkop's glinting eyes determinedly.

"I'm very interested. And I'm willing to start whenever you want."

"Do you have any other questions before we organise a proper tour of the library here?"

"Is it all right to speak freely here?"

"Once you are beyond the public areas, you may say what you like."

"I was just wondering. How come the sterling to Galleon exchange rate is so low for Muggles? My parents never complained too much about buying me books and things."

Hammerkop almost managed a benevolent smile.

"We goblins are told we cannot perform spells because we are lesser magical beings. We don't complain too much, although you can see we derive a certain enjoyment from making the average witch or wizard's life a little less pleasant. We subsidise the schooling of Muggle-born witches and wizards because we believe that everyone should have the chance to learn how to use magic. Nowadays, it doesn't matter so much, but in the past, the fact that we allowed Muggle parents to use Galleons at all angered the purebloods immensely. I have always thought it a great shame that Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy never knew how much help we give to the Muggle-borns."

"Oh, Hammerkop, I don't know how to thank you!" exclaimed Hermione, immensely humbled and not in the least bothered about the fortunes of Harry and Ron.

"For a start, you can make sure the Muggle Prime Minister receives this," croaked Hammerkop as he turned in his chair, grabbed a thick scroll of parchment off the shelf behind him and slid it across the table. "In the future, work hard and don't ask me for a pay-rise."

He clambered out of his chair, belched magnificently and bade Hermione and Snape goodnight. They watched him waddle out of the door before eying each other awkwardly.

"I'll have to take you home," said Snape. "You won't be able to get out of here under your own steam."

"As long as you give me my wand back first, I don't mind. Do you know where I live?"

"Not exactly, no. I'll have to take a quick look."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm a Legilimens, Hermione. Think of your flat."

Hermione thought of her sitting room. Snape gripped his wand and stared into her eyes in such a concentrated manner that her thoughts began to head down the corridor towards her bedroom. A direction that had them both blushing in seconds.

"I've seen enough," Snape muttered as he ducked his head and rose from the table awkwardly. "Come on."

* * *

Author's Notes:

1, "Backpacking in the Forest of Dean? Whatever possessed you?" paraphrases dialogue in _The Eyre Affair_ by Jasper Fforde.

2. A hammerkop is a bird from southern Africa.

3. Obviously, my Hammerkop would prefer not be referred to as the Director of Human Resources or Personnel Director.


	6. Chapter 6

All the usual disclaimer statements apply here.

Huge thanks to my beta, Melusin.

**Chapter 6: Bribery.**

The goblin guards bid Snape and Hermione a cheery goodnight and the security desk spat Hermione's wand back out as soon as Snape presented it with her ticket. He ran a hand through his hair and shut his eyes for a moment as he passed the wand over to Hermione. She could have sworn he was nervous.

"We can Disapparate from here," he said.

Hermione tucked her wand away in her sleeve, eagerly took Snape's hand and very nearly laughed out loud when they appeared outside her bathroom door. Snape folded his arms, leaned against the wall behind him and swore quietly into the darkness. Hermione reached behind her and pulled the cord for the bathroom light, illuminating Snape's face while hers remained in shadow.

"Why?" she enquired sternly.

"Why, what?" replied Snape evasively.

"Why are you even willing to talk to me, let alone prepared to track me down and persuade Hammerkop to offer me a job?"

Snape uncrossed his arms, shucked his cuffs and smoothed his tie. Hermione watched in fascination as his hand ran down from his neck, over his chest and back again. Eventually, he cleared his throat and declared petulantly, "You ___snuffled!_ You looked ___pathetic!_! I honestly think that if I'd ever had the ability to curl up on the carpet like a disgruntled puppy and weep into my genuinely fluffy hair, we'd be living in a very different world. Don't ___ever_ do that again; I don't like it!"

Hermione stored this extremely telling piece of information away for future reference. She was female, after all.

"Have I sunk beneath reproach?" she enquired, a trifle cockily.

"Absolutely," said Snape. "Welcome to the bottom of the pit."

"Is there any way of climbing out?"

Snape's petulant frown vanished. It was replaced by a speculative glance through his lashes that made Hermione want to cuddle him.

"The sides are slippery. You'd need somebody else to give you a leg-up, and that would require the payment of a bribe."

"What sort of bribe?"

"Somebody once told me that that's something you need to work out for yourself."

With studied nonchalance, Hermione paced down the corridor towards her sitting room, flicking light switches as she went. Snape followed, watching her intently. She threw Hammerkop's scroll onto the coffee table and rounded on him suddenly.

"Well … You've made an effort to get on with my mum and dad."

"Yes. Although, I might not be in their good books anymore."

"Oh?"

"I Apparated in their kitchen on Saturday evening, told them we'd had a row, and proceeded to run around the house shouting your name. We have some serious explaining to do."

Hermione clapped her hands over her eyes and began to mutter to herself.

"___Not a moment's peace …. Nothing less than marriage …. Thank God, I'll be away a lot!_"

"I beg your pardon?"

She peered through her fingers at Snape and made an effort to pull herself together.

"Don't worry about Mum and Dad. I'll handle them. You liked doing the crossword with me?"

"Yes."

"You gave me chocolate on Valentine's Day."

"Mmmm."

"And raffle tickets."

"Those, too."

"But I didn't win anything."

"That's a valid point. I thought you might disapprove if I fixed things to make sure that you won."

"Oh! So you tried to be ___fair_, too."

"Indeed I did. It was a struggle, I can tell you."

"And you apologised for scaring me half to death."

"For behaving in an unintentionally insensitive manner, yes."

"You cooked me sausages."

"With onion gravy."

"And ketchup," Hermione purred reminiscently. "You're wearing a nice suit, and I think your tie is lovely. Is there anything else I need to take into account?"

"Barring helping you to do your job, shielding you from the wrath of the goblins for the second time in your adult life, trusting you with the biggest secret in the wizarding world, setting you onto an interesting career path and listening to you ___not_ apologise for the entire evening, I think that's about it."

"The ___second_ time?"

"Your ability with the ___Defodio_ hex has become the stuff of goblin nightmares."

"Good grief! It sounds like a big bribe is required."

"An ___enormous _bribe. It could take years to pay it off."

Although things were beginning to sound very interesting indeed, Hermione felt that further negotiation was necessary before she came to a decision on how to proceed.

"Why were you so nice to me, Severus?"

Snape took a step forwards.

"Why do you think?"

"Because …. Because you were lonely?"

"Not precisely."

"Because you don't meet very many witches in your line of work?"

"Closer, but not close enough."

Hermione lifted her chin.

"Because you don't meet very many ___younger_ witches in your line of work?"

"Stop trying to be modest, Hermione. You're hopeless at it. You also seem to be absolutely diabolical at apologies."

Rather than argue the point, she hastened over to Snape and gazed up at him beseechingly, so he could check her sincerity if he wanted to.

"Severus, I'm very, very sorry. I was insensitive, unfair to you and unprincipled. All I want is to be able to make it up to you. Perhaps you should keep an eye on me, as well as the goblins, to make sure I'm never that stupid again."

Snape reached out a gratifyingly shaky index finger and twirled a tendril of hair that had escaped Hermione's ponytail around it.

"Perhaps you aren't as bad at apologising as I thought," he said gruffly. "To answer your question; I don't meet very many younger, pretty witches, who respond to the knowledge of my existence by exchanging banter, rather than avoiding me like the plague. In fact, I haven't met any for a very, ___very_ long time."

"Oh."

Snape continued to fiddle with her hair and raised his other hand to touch her cheek.

"Hermione, I was nice to you because I fancy you. And because one good look into your ridiculously transparent eyes indicates that the feeling may well be mutual."

"___Oh!_ You cheeky bugger! That's not very fair—"

"—Darling, try not to interrupt. We haven't settled on the required bribe, yet. I agree that keeping a close eye on you sounds like a good idea. Not least because it might be another thirty-odd years before I meet somebody else who makes me feel this way."

"Severus!"

Eager to begin making reparations, Hermione launched herself at Snape. He grunted with surprise and struggled for a moment to extract his index finger from its keratinous binding before shutting his eyes and tentatively kissing Hermione back. As she had predicted, large amounts of excitement and lust were, indeed, generated. Undignified, tandem staggering occurred. Snape banged his shin on the coffee table and collapsed onto the sofa with a yelp. Dragged by her hair, Hermione followed, her knees missing Snape's testicles by the merest whisper before conveniently ending up on either side of his thighs. Their mouths met again, and for a very long period of time, the silence was broken only by the groan of sofa springs, the static rustle of a polyester jumper against a thirteen ounce wool jacket, and the unmistakeable sound of enthusiastic snogging.

"Oh, my word!" Snape eventually panted against Hermione's throat.

In reply, she undid his tie, gleefully slid it out from under his shirt collar and looped it around her own neck before popping his top two buttons open and diving in to investigate.

"Hermione …. Oh! That's nice. Hermione?"

"Mmmm?"

"Can you kneel up for a second? I need to move a bit."

Hermione knelt. Snape held her waist, shifted his hips awkwardly until he was no longer painfully dressed to the left, and accidently tilted her forward until his nose disappeared between her breasts. He jerked her back and stared up, pink-cheeked and embarrassed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—"

"Don't you dare apologise," Hermione murmured, settling herself back down and wiggling appreciatively. "I'll just dispose of these, shall I?"

She laid Snape's silk tie over the arm of the sofa and then began to pull her jumper and vest over her head at the same time.

"Steady on!" gasped Snape.

"What?"

"Isn't this rather sudden?"

Hermione's heart and lungs seemed to contract simultaneously at the thought that Snape was about to turn her down. She frowned at him and deliberately wiggled her bottom.

"The words coming out of your mouth don't appear to match the bit of you that is at least trying to come out of your trousers."

"I know. ___Ah!_ Stay still, you minx! You're making this extremely difficult. I just don't want you to assume that you have to …"

Hermione finished wrestling her way out of her vest and jumper and threw them behind her. Snape's increasingly glazed eyes devoured every goose-pimple, and his fingers moved entirely of their own accord as he valiantly attempted to listen to the nervous babble coming from the object of his affection.

"I was ___hoping_ rather than assuming. I've had one parasite of a boyfriend, followed by twelve deeply unsatisfying one-night stands. At this moment in time, I'm sober as a judge, but I'm fairly sure I'll need your assistance to stand up! I'm not very clean, and I'm terrified I might disappoint you, but to be frank I've ___really_ got the horn, and at thirty years old, I'd rather start learning how to enjoy myself, and what you enjoy, sooner, rather than later. Is that okay?"

Snape blinked at her incredulously before he began to smile.

"Of course it's bloody well okay! It's just that this is all, um, far ___easier_ than I was expecting. Don't you want to look through the report we've written first? Play hard to get for a few weeks?"

Hermione shrugged. "Let me guess. You decided to say that wizarding households display a high degree of self-sufficiency, that working hours are short and that salaries are therefore much lower than their Muggle equivalent. You haven't mentioned the existence of the goblins, and you haven't mentioned gold. There is a load of boring stuff about controlling inflation that I don't give a monkey's about, and you're going to engineer a chance meeting with Bob Daniels, with some eye-contact, to make sure that he's convinced."

"Oh, for goodness sake. It took us three days to come up with that!"

"I didn't have much to do while I was camping, and I thought you might have asked Bill Weasley to help – his family are an ideal model. The Legilimency part of it has only just occurred to me. Severus, I'm obviously not going to play hard to get. Why don't you tell me about all the difficulties you were expecting while we have a nice hot shower? It's a bit cold sitting here in just my bra."

"That much is wonderfully apparent."

"Well?"

"I feel I should warn you that I'm not … I don't often … I haven't …. Did you say ___twelve?_"

Ah. She'd clearly given a little too much information.

"I also said, 'unsatisfying one-night stands'. It sounds like we've both got some catching up to do. I think we've stumbled across a suitably enormous bribe that could take years to pay."

As Snape's blush began to resemble the setting sun in wintertime, Hermione smiled back at him with relief. At least they'd be learning together. After several reassuring kisses and absolutely no staying still, she scrambled up off his lap and tottered unsteadily towards the bathroom, beckoning imperiously. Snape cast his eyes up to the ceiling and counted to three. Then he hauled himself up off the sofa, removed his jacket, carefully draped it next to his tie, and followed.

The End

* * *

Author's Notes:

It would be remiss of me not to say that the drabble 'Virgin on the Ridiculous' by Melusin didn't have something of an influence on this chapter.

Harrietvane provided two lovely prompts on which this story is based. They were:

a. Some time after the war, having realised the limited professional opportunities available in the wizarding world, Hermione gets a job as the magical adviser to the Muggle Prime Minister, who no longer trusts the Ministry of Magic to keep him abreast of any developing issues. She somehow – in the course of her professional duties or even on the bus or Tube home – runs into Snape, and curiosity gets the better of her.

b. Hermione's mother, in the style of Bridget Jones's Diary, is starting to nag her 30-something daughter into finding a man and settling down. At a gathering of some kind (perhaps a turkey curry buffet?), she meets Snape, who her mother has chosen as her victim for the day. How he came to be invited is entirely up to the author, mostly because it's the hard part. Romance ensues according to whatever plot the author feels like taking.


End file.
